


Sex Arcade: Miranda Lawson

by hdctbpal



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-02-24 02:56:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2565746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hdctbpal/pseuds/hdctbpal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miranda Lawson is captured and displayed for public use at a sex arcade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Manager Comments

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Slave... Or A Pet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/658656) by [NakedOwlMan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NakedOwlMan/pseuds/NakedOwlMan). 
  * Inspired by [Sex-Arcade Booth: Miranda Lawson](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/84539) by Sabu. 



> Thank you for reading and thank you for the kudos!

Subject: Lawson, Miranda

Physical description:  
Sex: Female  
Height: 5 feet 9.5 inches  
Weight: 140 pounds  
Hair: Black  
Eyes: Blue  
Age: 36 (appears younger due to genetic enhancements)  
Profession: Operative

Known associations: Subject was highly placed in terrorist group "Cerberus" and served with Jane Shepard (aka "Heroine of the Blitz", "Savior of the Citadel", etc.; see "Project Lazarus"). Subject later defected from Cerberus and distanced herself from Shepard, which facilitated her capture.

Assets:  
Extensive genetic modifications imparting enhanced physical attractiveness, stamina, pain tolerance  
Infertility  
Mixture of overt sexual allure and reserved personality that will appeal to many clients

Liabilities:  
Enhanced intelligence, physical strength, stamina, reflexes, pain tolerance, toxin resistance  
Psychokinetic ability (see "biotics")  
Extensive combat and covert operations training and experience  
Survival, resistance, and escape (SERE) training and experience  
In summary, an exceptionally dangerous subject.

*

Acquisition:  
The acquisition of Miranda Lawson is a textbook illustration of the importance of thorough planning and preparation.

Phase one (Recon): Subject was monitored covertly for a period of three months. During that time, she changed identities at least seven times and relocated nine times. She appears to have detected our surveillance efforts on at least two occasions; however, she mistakenly attributed these to Cerberus.

Phase two (Contact): Acquisition of subject was expected to be very difficult. It was decided to enlist the aid of her former employer (Cerberus). This proved instrumental to the success of the mission.

From Cerberus we learned Ms. Lawson was trying to locate her sister, Oriana, who was previously under protection of Cerberus. As Ms. Lawson had defected from Cerberus, Oriana was now missing and presumed to have been abducted by Henry Lawson, who was now also affiliated with Cerberus. Ms. Lawson was determined to locate her sister, even at the risk of her own life.

Based on this intelligence, information was leaked to Ms. Lawson pertaining to location of her sister. This was done by LDE agents posing as fellow Cerberus defectors and using Cerberus communication channels and recognition signals that were provided to us for this mission. Ms. Lawson was receptive to this approach, and a meeting was arranged in a lightly populated location with easy access via shuttle.

Phase three (Acquisition): A prototype "mass effect damping" device was purchased from Cerberus. This device counteracts "biotic" effects and disables personal (though not larger) weapons, kinetic barriers, and shields, all of which operate on the same principle (i.e. manipulation of dark energy). As expected, it rendered the subject easily susceptible to tranquilizer darts fired by pneumatic rifle. The dosages were increased (1.0937 times standard dosage for non-enhanced human female of equal body mass) to compensate for her superior toxin resistance.

Phase four (Extraction): Routine. Subject, now immobilized, was secured and extracted via shuttle with doctored "Systems Alliance" markings and registry. Shuttle then docked with a similarly disguised FTL-capable ship. Ship exited Citadel space without incident and proceeded to "mass relay" which had been previously interfaced with Mass Quantic Gate (MQG). To date, no sign of pursuit has been detected.

Phase five (Integration): Minor surgery was required to remove "biotic amp" device, which provided neural interface to implanted element zero.

*

Transcript 1: Acquisition of Subject: Lawson, Miranda  
[Door opens]  
[Subject enters with weapon drawn]  
Subject: Zhou? [Alias used by LDE operative when establishing contact]  
Acquisition Team Member 1 (A1): You got the money?  
Subject: As we agreed. Half up front, half when I find her. Where is she?  
A1: First point that thing someplace else.  
Subject: Where. Is. She?  
[Silence]  
Subject: There are other ways of doing this. [Shifts aim.] I'll begin with the extremities.  
A1 [Raises hands.] All right, all right. She's in a Cerberus facility in an asteroid belt in the Farinata system. For high-value detainees, they said.  
Subject: I know of it. [Exhales.] Very well. I want the latest personnel roster, supply schedule, everything.  
A1: That'll cost another -  
Subject: I don't care. Send it. [Voice analysis suggests subject planned to eliminate contact at the conclusion of the transaction.]  
A1: Fine. [Activates "omni-tool".]  
[Mass effect damping device engages. Subject immediately (reaction time was less than 0.4 seconds) attempts to open fire; as expected, her weapon malfunctions. Operatives A2 and A3, concealed by portable cloaking devices, fire a total of three tranquilizer darts at subject. Subject evades the first dart, but is struck in her left breast by the second, and in the back of her right thigh by the third. Due to the adjusted dosage, subject is rendered harmless in less than three seconds. Subject is able to remove one dart before injection completes, but is not able to remove the remaining dart before onset of paralysis.]  
Subject: No... [unintelligible]  
A1: Target is down.  
A4: Perimeter secure.  
A1: Comm?  
A4: There was an attempted burst transmission. Likely keyed to her biometrics. We caught it.  
A1: Forward it to Intel.  
A4: Yes ma'am.  
A1: E-Team: red sky. ["All clear" signal]  
Extraction Team Member 1 (E1): Say again, team one.  
A1: I repeat, Romeo Sierra.  
E1: Roger that. On our way.

*

Transcript 2: Integration of Subject: Lawson, Miranda  
Subject: [moans]  
Integration Team Member 2 (I2): Ma'am? She's waking up.  
Subject: [unintelligible]  
I1: Ms. Lawson?  
Subject: Uhhh...  
I1: How are we feeling?  
Subject: ...where...  
I1: "Where" does not matter, Ms. Lawson. Right now, "what" is rather more important.  
Subject: Ori...  
I1: Don't worry, Ms. Lawson. With any luck, you'll see your sister soon.  
I2: You might even be working together.  
Subject: No - you have to let me - mmph! [unintelligible]  
I1: [Inserts bar gag.] Shhh. For now, Ms. Lawson, I need you to listen carefully.  
[Transcript continues; see Appendix B]

*

Transcript 3: Playback of automated burst transmission sent by subject upon incapacitation.  
Shepard, this is Miranda Lawson. If you're receiving this, I've been captured or killed while trying to find Oriana. Do not try to find me. Focus on Oriana.  
I'm meeting with an informant who goes by the alias Kara Zhou. Meeting location is the Citadel, Tayseri Ward, Dilinaga Concert Hall, Rehearsal Room 3. It's still closed for repairs, which is no doubt why she picked it. I'll be careful, but that might not be enough. But I have to do this. It's the most promising lead I've had so far. I'm including a record of our correspondence in case it helps you track her.  
Again: don't try to find me, Shepard. Find Oriana. Please.

*

Addendum: Subject has proven highly resistant to physical, psychic, and chemical restraint, exceeding expectations based on genetic makeup and personality profile. Thus far, no clients have been injured, but several have expressed complaints over Ms. Lawson's evident lack of willingness and her scathing verbal abuse (which she has quickly learned to convey in spite of her gag). We have referred her to several clients with a taste for especially reluctant subjects, but these make up a minority of our clientele. Given these difficulties, and given the expenses incurred in acquiring this subject, Accounting projects an additional three months before subject is profitable.

We therefore recommend acquisition of Ms. Lawson's sister, Oriana, to facilitate her integration. (1) This will be less costly than the acquisition of Ms. Lawson herself. (2) We expect Ms. Lawson to cooperate more readily with her clients given the simple incentive of reducing the client load upon her sister. (3) Optionally, the Lawson sisters, as a combined attraction, would yield an expected 350% revenue increase over projections for the first year.

*

Private rental schedule:

Name: [Redacted for client privacy]  
Scheduled time: Twelve hours  
Expected intensity level: 2 (twenty-four hours downtime required for subject following session)  
Location: Love Hurts (Equipped with St. Andrews cross, restraint and suspension gear, EMS TENS unit, Sybian, and various custom-made devices for forcibly inducing female orgasms. Stocked with clamps and spanking and flogging tools, none of which are rated to leave permanent marks. Nonetheless, all sessions must be supervised by approved personnel.)  
Excerpt from preliminary client interview:  
Q: What interests you about this particular girl?  
A: That's for me to know and her to find out.  
Q: What would you like her to wear for your session?  
A: A cheerleader costume. White with gold and black accents. And matching ribbons.  
Q: Are there any items you need to bring with you?  
A: A tattoo gun. (Smiles.) Gonna put a beautiful Cerberus tramp stamp right above dat ass. Just for starters.  
Q: That entails an additional fee of -  
A: (Waves) It'll be worth it.  
Note: Schedule subject for laser tattoo removal following session.

Name: [Redacted for client privacy]  
Scheduled time: One week  
Expected intensity level: 0 (no downtime required for subject following session)  
Location: Honeymoon Suite 2 (Bedroom equipped with canopy bed with silk sheets and extra pillows. Stocked with wine, chocolates, massage oil, and books containing love poems in 23 languages and dialects. Adjoining bathroom equipped with large whirlpool bath, shower with overhead wrist restraints for subjects, hot tub. Stocked with soaps, shampoos, foaming bath salts, perfumes, numerous waterproof vibrators, and yellow rubber ducky.)  
Excerpt from preliminary client interview:  
Q: What interests you about this particular girl?  
A: (Blushes) I...well, to be honest, I always had a bit of a crush on her.  
Q: What would you like her to wear for your session?  
A: Um...  
Q: It's all right, Miss. Anything within reason. Trust us, we've seen every fetish you can imagine here.  
A: (Giggles) Just a nice big white bow around her neck. And...um...a pair of hooker heels? White also. And, um, nothing else. (Blushes deeply.)  
Q: Are there any items you need to bring with you?  
A: A comb. (Smiles wistfully.) I always wanted to comb out her hair for her.

Name: [Redacted for client privacy]  
Scheduled time: Four hours  
Expected intensity level: 3 (forty-eight hours downtime required for subject following session)  
Location: Examination Room 2 (Equipped with adjustable steel examination table with stirrups and wrist/ankle restraints. Air-conditioned to 15 degrees Celsius. Stocked with scrubs, caps, and masks for clients and thin cotton hospital gowns for subjects. Also stocked with latex and vinyl examination gloves, dental gags, vaginal and anal speculums, tongue depressors, and cotton swabs. Also stocked with small-bore needles; however, injections may consist only of inert solutions and must be supervised by approved personnel.)  
Excerpt from preliminary client interview:  
Q: What interests you about this particular girl?  
A: Her arrogant attitude. (Smiles.) I just want to give her a little instruction in manners.  
Q: What would you like her to wear for your session?  
A: Nothing. Nothing at all.  
Q: Are there any items you need to bring with you?  
A: My hands and mouth will be more than adequate.  
Note: During integration, subject demonstrated moderate phobia of medical procedures, even simple physical examinations. Schedule an additional twenty-four hours of downtime and counseling for subject following this and all future sessions in Examination Rooms.


	2. Miranda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This story is inspired by Sabu's Sex-Arcade series, but this is only a fan work and is not canonical. His artworks and stories may be different from this, and any mistakes here are entirely mine.

Miranda Lawson woke from nightmare to nightmare.

A sharp buzz coupled with a sudden harsh white light jolted her from her troubled sleep. As always there was a moment of disorientation, no doubt due to the various chemicals they forced into her day and night. Then, inevitably, she was reminded where she was. She automatically tried to roll out of bed and was caught up short by a ring of cold steel that bit into her neck. Her blue eyes flicked down and saw the thick cable that ran from her collar to the leg of her cot, which it spiraled around before ending in a welded loop that was secured with a heavy padlock to an eye bolt set into the floor.

She was in the Sex Arcade. Whatever the hell that was.

Her cell - her closet, really - consisted of four metal walls and a metal door bolted from the outside each night. At five foot nine inches, her lush dark hair brushed the ceiling when she stood up. If she reached out to her sides, her hands pressed flat against the walls before she could fully extend her arms.

She had a tiny cot, a sharp-edged metal frame bolted to the floor, with thin rough canvas stretched tautly across it. A tiny, lumpy pillow that gave her cricks in her neck. No blanket, though in this room she tended to sweat and toss through the night more often than freeze. In the corner was a toilet, which her leash allowed her to reach, though not comfortably - at least when she didn't entangle it with her arm, as she had this morning.

There was a light, painfully bright, behind a translucent fiberglass square set into the overhead, but no light switch - it was controlled from the outside and used only to awaken her each morning.

The light vanished as suddenly as it appeared. The door clanged open, throwing a rectangle of more diffuse light across her bed. She didn't flinch and try to cover her nudity, as she had at first, though she did shiver in the colder air that swept into the room.

An attendant entered, clad in a pink and white uniform that made her look like a cross between a lab tech and a handyman; she had pockets and pouches stuffed with various tools for restraining and disciplining wayward captives, many of them sharp and painful. She ignored Miranda's nudity, ignored Miranda entirely. Miranda returned the favor. At first she had demanded to know where she was, to know why she was here, to be set free, to speak to whoever was in charge of this place. The attendants ignored her demands as if they were the ravings of an inmate in an insane asylum.

This one crouched by her cot, produced a key, and opened the padlock that secured Miranda's leash to the floor. She then secured it instead to a metal clip that protruded from a bracelet on her wrist. Miranda just sat on the bed and watched without interfering. Twice, she had tried jumping the attendant the instant the leash was not anchored to something. Each time, she had received a painful jab from a dart fired by another attendant who stood outside the door, followed by a maddening and frightening hour in which she lay paralyzed and helpless, yet hyperaware of what went on around her, just as she had been when they first captured her.

They hadn't even punished her, as if to show their unassailable power over her, the utter futility of her resisting. She hated to admit it, but it was an effective demonstration.

The attendant didn't yank on Miranda's leash to bring her to her feet; she just turned and started out of the cell, and Miranda had no choice but to put her bare feet on the cold, gritty metal floor and follow her, or else go limp and make the attendant try to drag her by her collar. She'd tried that, too; there had come the same painful jab, and then she'd been carried out.

She followed the attendant down a hallway past a row of cells like hers, whose occupants were being roused as she was. Then they passed other cells, ones with large windows set into the doors. Miranda's mouth twisted in contempt. These cells were where the slaves were kept. That was how Miranda thought of them, anyway.

Slaves had cells with windows that let them see out (though the windows were unbreakable polycarbonate and the doors were still locked from the outside at night). They slept on beds, not cots. They were allowed an extra half hour to sleep in. They were awoken by soft chimes, not loud buzzers and flashes of light. Their cells had bathrooms, not toilets, and they each enjoyed a private shower with hot water, rather than being herded, naked, into an open area and hosed down like Miranda was.

If Miranda had cared to look through the windows into one of these cells, she would have seen a girl sitting at a table, eating a hot breakfast with utensils (though soft, compostable ones that could not be used as weapons). The girl wore a leather collar and was not chained to her bed.

Miranda was always chained to something. When she was taken from one place to another, she was walked on a leash like a dog, with a heavy steel collar squeezing her throat.

The slaves were still secured to their booths for public use each day, but that was more to reassure the clients than to actually restrain them. Their dulled eyes made it clear that all resistance had left them, that they wouldn't flee even if given the chance. Their bodies had already been stolen from them for use in this place, and to get this improved treatment all they had to do was sell their souls.

Their captors made sure Miranda saw them. She and all the other less privileged prisoners were paraded past these cells every day. The windows were not there for the slaves to look out, but for her to look in.

Miranda despised the occupants of those plush cells. Perhaps even more than she did her captors. Perhaps, she admitted to herself, deep down, it was because, more than anything, she feared ending up like them. She had inflicted torture while with Cerberus, and had been trained in how to resist it, and the first thing these experiences taught her was that anyone could be broken. For her, the key was to use that fear to drive herself to find a way to escape. For herself, but especially for Oriana. Oriana needed her. And, somehow, Miranda would escape, return to the search for her, and find her. That unshakable conviction sustained her in this terrible place. It let her keep her sanity were lesser wills would be - and were - broken.

She supposed it could be worse. She could have been sent to Omega, perhaps as a personal plaything for Petrovsky, or as a public amusement for batarians and - she shuddered - vorcha. Whatever this place was, she had seen only humans so far. That further led her to suspect this was all some revenge of Cerberus. Except that she didn't recognize any of the other girls. And in her experience, those who betrayed or displeased the Illusive Man were simply disposed of. Miranda knew all about Admiral Kahoku and Paul Grayson, among countless others, and she had never heard of anyone being punished in a way as petty, sadistic, and sick as this.

*

In the public shower area, she and the other captives were hosed down with needle-sharp sprays of icy water, which was mixed with some kind of detergent for scouring skin and hair. It stung her eyes. It roughened her snowy, silky skin and left her glossy dark hair dull and matted and tangled. Afterward, she shivered, dripping, hugging her breasts and bouncing slightly in place to try to warm up. Again, she no longer had enough modesty to reflexively cover her sex, as she had at first. It was exposed all the time, even when she was dressed in her torn clothing, and more and more she wished she had been born without it. It was nothing now but a source of endless misery.

She went from shivering to wincing as she was blasted with scalding hot air. In moments, only a few stray droplets remained on her reddened skin. She was given one minute to put on her stained and torn black and white jumpsuit, the same one she was captured in. At least they laundered it every day; it was becoming faded and threadbare. She had, of course, considered refusing to put it on, but she knew if she did she would simply be forced to perform nude that day. Her thighs pressed together involuntarily as she imagined how her clients would appreciate that.

It had been a total of ten minutes since she'd awoken.

Next she was herded to the mess hall. She and her fellow captives sat together at long tables, but conversation was forbidden. Anyone who spoke did not eat. The food was tasteless lukewarm mush, worthless except for the calories it provided, fuel for the horrific exercises that awaited them. They were not allowed utensils, even soft ones, which forced her to eat with her fingers - another tiny indignity that fed her anger perhaps even more than the larger ones.

At first, of course, Miranda had not eaten. She had hurled her plates at the attendants, though they were paper and could do no harm. She couldn't even scald them with coffee - her paper cup contained some kind of cold, syrupy pseudo-fruit juice, no doubt some nutrient mixture.

As she soon found out, the alternative to eating was not starving, but worse. She was quickly subdued with one of the hated paralysis darts and taken back to her cell. She was not even able to cry out as they roughly stuck the IV into her.

When she was marched back to the mess hall for lunch, no hint of the mess remained. Again, she was not even punished. The incident - her resistance - was obliterated. It had never happened.

Eventually she gave up and ate what they fed her, glaring at the attendants like an animal at its rivals as it devours its kill. They were as indifferent to her mute hostility as they had been to her violent outburst.

She was required to drink more of the revolting nutrient syrup throughout the day. Constant sexual activity was hard work, even if you were not an active or even a willing participant. So was struggling and squirming and tensing every muscle in your body with rage, as Miranda did. For the first several mornings, she had awoken with deep aches in places she had never even realized she could ache.

She had to do calisthenics as well. These she welcomed as a remnant of her old life, even if they were only so she would remain attractive for her clients. She went at them with a will, and earned compliments from her attendants which she pointedly ignored. She was in better shape, at least physically, than she had been while with Cerberus.

But a sizable part of her nutrition and hydration came from the pints - literally - of semen she was forced to swallow each day.

*

After ten minutes for breakfast, she was half-marched, half-dragged to the public part of the arcade. By the time she got there, her collar had left angry red marks around her neck. Even the more pampered slaves walked as slowly as they could get away with.

She was forced onto her back - of course - on her familiar and hated table. She flinched and gasped at the touch of the icy metal to her bare skin, but she was firmly held down and quickly secured in place.

Then came the gag. She especially resented that. Its purpose was to reduce her to a speechless animal. It said her mind counted for nothing, that she had nothing to offer the world but the use of her body, that her role was purely receptive and reproductive, that her only value derived from the pleasure of men. And because she couldn't close her mouth, drool soon trickled down the side of her face to pool on the table beneath her. A fastidious woman, she detested that.

A few of her fellow captives were indeed little smarter than animals. But Miranda Lawson, more than anything, needed to think, to speak, to express herself, to analyze the complex thoughts that raced endlessly through her brain, to communicate with others on her plane of ability. She needed those things more than she needed to eat, or to love or to be loved. When she had first discovered that feeling of intellectual kinship, with one of her math tutors, she had instantly felt like she was home, as she never had in her father's house.

But here her wants and needs meant nothing. All that mattered were those of her clients.

*

Her first client - her first rapist - was already there, his pants discarded on the floor, his cock out and ready to go. He hadn't even bothered to take off his shirt, which strained to cover his muscled torso. His large penis glistened and dripped with lube. She found herself feeling absurdly grateful for that small kindness - at least her captors knew she would hardly be wet on her own. But then, the lube was not for her comfort; it was to prevent her vagina from being too badly abraded, which would take her out of service.

Twisting her neck, she could see others lined up behind the man. It was going to be a long day.

She looked up at him with pure hatred in her wide blue eyes as he strolled up to his place between her forcibly spread thighs, his cock leading the way. He just smirked at her fury. His dark eyes met hers, unflinching, as he pressed the head of his cock against the outer lips of her vulva. Every nerve in her body seemed to shrink at the unwanted and intimate contact. She tried to squirm away, but there wasn't so much as an inch of give in her restraints.

He reached down and stroked her labia majora with his large, calloused fingers, then - not roughly, but not gently - opened them to reveal her soft pink inner lips. He rubbed the head of his cock up and down over them until they glistened with lube and pre-cum. Then, inexorably, the head moved forward, gradually forcing its way between them.

At this first violation of the day, a thin wail of anger and anguish slipped through her gag. She regretted it at once, because it only drove him on. He watched her face, taking in every change, the twitches of the muscles around her clenched jaw, the tiny wrinkles that came and went at the corners of her eyes, the small vertical cleft that appeared between her dark eyebrows as he penetrated ever deeper into the most jealously guarded place in her body, into the core of her physical being.

Even with the lube, Miranda was very tight, and he was larger than normal, so it took some time before she was stretched enough to accommodate him fully. But his slow forward movement never ceased, the rock hardness of his erection never waned, and he never took his eyes from hers. His were focused and relentless, hers far away, as she tried to distract herself by visualizing what she would do to him if their positions were reversed.

At last he filled her completely. He held there for several long moments, savoring the feel of her, the tiny spasms of her violated body around his cock. Then, ever so slowly, he withdrew. He stopped half an inch short of freeing her from his vile intrusion, and then, inevitably, began to impale her again.

Miranda managed to not make another sound during the ordeal, except for an occasional grunt when he shook her body with an especially hard thrust. She shouted abuse at her clients through her gag when she thought it might interfere with their performance, but for this asshole it would clearly just improve the experience.

He took his time with her, repeatedly slowing down as he approached his orgasm, admiring her half-naked body (which now glistened with sweat) as he allowed his urgency to recede, then hugging her upraised left leg to his chest as his pelvis began moving to meet hers again. He was paying by the hour, not by the orgasm, but cost was clearly no object when it came to enjoying Miranda.

Behind her assailant, fluffer girls - other captives - moved through the line of waiting men, offering quiet encouragement - mostly on their knees - to those who couldn't remain hard merely by watching the obscenity before them. After all, the harder they were when they entered her, the faster they came, and the sooner they went off to brag to their friends that they had just fucked the lovely Miss Miranda Lawson, and the more clients showed up and paid money to do the same.

The fluffing also allowed many clients to return to the back of the line and go through it again. Some of the younger and more energetic ones even managed to do so twice, though their second turn was much more leisurely, and their third was as much to simply prove they could as for sheer pleasure.

At last her rapist's pace began to quicken in the familiar, and hated, way. He released her leg and leaned forward, over her, until their upper bodies were nearly parallel. His face looked down into hers, almost touching.

This time it was his eyes that squeezed shut, as a cry escaped him and a thin stream of drool dangled from his mouth and landed across her chin. It was her eyes that remained open and bitterly aware. Every awful detail of him imprinted itself onto her mind. His stupid, brutish, vacant face, twisted by lust into an animal mask. The heat of his body where it joined and entered hers. The rasping of his breath from both mouth and nose, and the moist warmth of it tickling her face. The smell of his cologne - the bastard wore cologne for this? she thought, as if they were on a date and she were his willing partner? It enraged her further, no doubt as he had intended.

She felt the wave of his ecstasy break over her as he came deep inside her. And then to her utter disgust and shame she felt her vaginal muscles involuntarily squeeze him as he withdrew, as if reluctant to let go of him, eliciting a final twitch of his penis and no doubt a last dribble of ejaculate inside her. Her body was betraying her, responding to the enforced sexual activity even as she resolutely shut her mind to it.

As he straightened up, the stream of his drool that had joined them parted, falling in a line from her trembling lower lip down between her large breasts, almost to her navel.

He thumped his flaccid, sopping prick against the inside of her thigh in a proprietary way, smearing it with a mixture of his cum (mostly) and her juices (only a little).

"God. You were worth every penny, Miri," he said, with that particular look of male smugness with which she was becoming loathsomely familiar.

"Go fuck your mother," she managed to say, putting every ounce of venom she could into it, the words only slightly distorted by the gag - she had long since learned what sounds she could and could not articulate. She hadn't meant to say anything - hadn't meant to give him the satisfaction - but the use of Niket's pet name for her, from another lifetime - how the hell did this bastard know it? - jolted it out of her.

He just winked. "Thanks, but I like you more. See you later." That last was no idle threat, she knew. He turned his back to her as he put his member away. "All yours," he said to the next client, a younger man who had such a bulge in the front of his pants it must have been painful to walk. He unzipped them with a sigh of relief.

Miranda braced herself for another rape, but the next client did not approach the expected place between her thighs. She groaned inwardly as he instead walked up alongside her table. Then his fist was in her lush dark hair - her eyes teared up at his grip - and he roughly turned her head to look eye to eye with his cock.

It throbbed hungrily, pulsing with his rapid heartbeat, the tiny slit opening and closing ever so slightly as though alive and trying to take in air. It was already, she noted with loathing, glistening wetly, and not with lube.

An attendant stepped forward and quickly replaced Miranda's bar gag with a ring, forcing her mouth into a permanent O. This at least gave her a moment to tell her next client that his mother performed in varren sex shows on Omega for five credits each, to pay for her batarian gigolos, who refused to fuck her without hefty compensation.

As always, it made no difference; he heard nothing but the urgings of his cock, which was jammed into her mouth immediately following the gag.

At first she refused to cooperate, so he simply forced himself deeper until she gagged, tears leaking from her eyes, her throat feeling scraped and raw almost as if she had been stabbed there. He could keep it there, she knew, until she passed out or vomited, if he so desired. Several of her clients had so desired.

With an inner sigh of frustration she gave in; her wet warm tongue reluctantly began caressing and exploring the veined ridges of his cock, thickly coating it with her saliva. He gave her a taunting, triumphant grin as he withdrew just enough to let her gasp for air. The taste and smell of him filled her mouth and nose, thick and musky and musty and sweaty, threatening to trigger her gag reflex anew; it seemed to seep down her throat and into her lungs, coating them so that she could never expel it all.

When she wasn't working hard enough to suit him, he tightened his grip in her hair or silently threatened to throat-fuck her again, until she stepped up the pace. Soon she was audibly licking and slurping at him. The other clients heard it and cheered. He hadn't even finished when, at an unseen signal from the attendant, yet another client stepped forward to enjoy her now-defiled vagina, the two of them filling her from each end.

By now she had plenty of practice; it didn't take long.

To her relief, at the last instant he pulled out, not forcing her to swallow, but then he tilted his head back and groaned loudly as his cock jerked and spewed jet after jet of cum over her face. Soon her mouth and nose were thickly spattered with his warm pearly white semen, which mixed with her drool as it ran down her face. Several stray gobs landed in her hair, vividly white against the dark strands.

Miranda hated semen. She hated it even when having sex willingly, which wasn't often. In the past she invariably forced her partners to pull out before cumming in her vagina, and she simply refused to give blowjobs for fear of having them cum in her mouth. Her dislike of it was nearly phobic. She hated the smell of it, hated the salty taste of it, hated the slimy feel of it. And after being brought here she had learned even more reasons to hate it. How it stung her eyes. How it was warm and gooey at first and then cooled and congealed into a sticky paste on her face and neck and breasts, on her belly and the insides of her thighs, on her feet and between her toes.

The first several times this happened, she threw up. The clients were amused, but it still required her to be taken away and cleaned up. She now had to take an anti-nausea pill every morning with her breakfast; it was one of the few medications she took willingly.

The attendants cleaned her - with the icy water and blistering dryer - several times daily. Otherwise Miranda would have been simply soaked with cum, her torn clothes caked with it, her table crisscrossed with gouts of it, her face glazed with it until her eyes were glued shut, her dark hair slicked down to her head with it, twin trickles of it leaking from her pussy and ass to the floor. She had never imagined such a thing was possible, but now she knew it from bitter experience. Some of her clients liked precisely that look, and she had endured a few exceptionally hellish day-long "bukkake" sessions to satisfy their sick adolescent fetish. Most of her clients, however, found it a bit gross. They liked seeing her wet and messy enough to make it clear she was a slut openly available for their enjoyment, but at the same time it didn't do to remind them just how many men had enjoyed her before them.

The client stepped away, a thick ribbon of cum and drool joining his cock to her face, until it parted and fell across her cheek and the table. Seeing this, the other man could hold out no longer. With a hoarse cry he slammed his crotch against hers and his fingers left angry red marks on her thighs as he experienced a climax that shook both their bodies.

*

As the day wore on, Miranda gave up glaring and screaming abuse at her clients. Her voice gave out after a couple of hours anyway. She just stared dully up at the featureless ceiling, or at the abdomen of whomever she was being forced to fellate, and tried to blot out the passage of time so it would go faster. That was appalling in its own way - she was nearly as bored as she was traumatized by the dozens of rapes. But even hell eventually became routine.

Unfortunately, time was marked off for her by every single thrust into her unwilling body (average one second), every time a client shuddered and spent himself inside her (average ten minutes), every time a familiar cock returned for another go at her (average one hour).

She tried to distract herself with mental exercise. During the brief fraction of her waking hours when she wasn't strapped to her table, her eyes looked everywhere, trying to record everything. The layout of her prison. The locations of the guards and their patrol routes. Possible alarm systems. While she was being raped, and feigning apathy, her ears sifted through the multilayered babble of the arcade for clues as to how to escape.

But the endless cocktail of drugs her captors forced into her seemed to affect her concentration and memory. More and more, she felt as if she were groping through a fog, where her own thoughts eluded her when she tried to hold on to them. That frightened her more than everything else that was done to her. How long would it be before the damage became irreversible? It was becoming difficult even to estimate the number of days she had been here, the more so because each was just like the last. She couldn't even carve notches into the furniture of her cell (which was all steel) with her fingernails (which were cut short to prevent her using them on someone's eyes). She didn't think she had been here for a year, or half a year, but it had been at least a month. 

She did, however, begin to remember and recognize some of her clients. She didn't want to, because that made them more human. She wanted them to be faceless monsters, shadowy shapes in a nightmare from which she could wake up.

Some appeared only occasionally. Others, who really liked her, visited almost daily. She found herself giving them nicknames, which she was then unable to wipe from her mind.

The Bastard, the one who had raped her first this morning, because her obvious implacable hatred of him simply fueled his enjoyment of her.

The Pig, whose tiny, fat-shrouded eyes and thick greasy hands seemed to probe every inch of her before he stuffed his fat, grimy cock into her. The lower fold of his pale, hairy gut obscured most of his length, so that only the head and another inch or so actually made it inside her. That made it easier for him to pull out and paint her belly and inner thighs with his thick wad.

The Bitch, the bony redhead who insisted on enjoying Miranda's tongue on her clit through the ring gag (Miranda was not bisexual) before vigorously fucking her with a large purple strap-on.

And the one who was at the same time the best and worst, she nicknamed Loverboy. He was lean, with gray eyes, not handsome, not ugly. He never simply fucked her. First his fingertips lightly explored her half-naked body and combed the tangles from her hair. Her large pink nipples and areolae were ticklish and she could not stand having them tweaked or sucked; he barely brushed them with his lips. He leaned over her and whispered encouragement to her that surprisingly was not corny, but almost tender, as his tongue brushed aside her dark hair and flicked her ear (where she was very sensitive). When he finally penetrated her, he was very attentive to the smallest movements of her body, and his fingers gently teased out her clit and stroked it slowly as he savored each thrust in and out of her.

She hated to admit it, but it was very hard not to feel glimmerings of sexual response to his attentions, especially when she compared them to how the rest of her clients treated her. She violently repressed any urge to show pleasure. But she found herself lying there passively rather than fighting as he took her, her curvy but toned white body rocking gently on the table with the rhythm of him. And, sometimes, she caught herself looking silently back at him instead of up at the ceiling, and there was a kind of understanding in their shared gaze. She tried to tell herself that he no doubt treated her fellow captives the same way. But somehow she knew he never visited anyone else, which was confirmed one day by a conversation she overheard between two attendants.

She feared what would happen if he ever ordered a private session with her. Of course, she would flay him alive along with every other one of these bastards if - no, when - she got out of here, but...

At first she had fought all of her assailants. Then, resigned, she had tried to make each of them cum as quickly as possible - not by acting slutty, of course, but at least participating a bit and urging them on with her eyes and the motions of her body. But she soon realized that no matter how many of them she fucked, she would never get through them all. So she went back to fighting. Then she tried to draw each client out for as long as possible, mostly by lying inert and letting them feel as if they were fucking a corpse. That caused some complaints - it seemed the clients liked that even less than fighting. It also earned her a punishment she did not care to repeat.

In the end she settled on a mixed approach. The clients she liked - well, the ones she hated least, like Loverboy - she tried to keep inside her as long as she could, slowing things down when they became urgent, speeding them up when they became too slow, delaying their orgasm as long as she could get away with. They liked that, and unfortunately for her it meant their orgasms were explosively rich and creamy and sticky, but it caused them to schedule more sessions with her, which meant less time fucking clients like the Pig.

Clients like him she tried to finish as quickly as she could. Over time she found herself saying more and more obscene things, moaning and whining like a slut in heat, doing things that would have been unthinkable before she found herself in this hell. Anything to get them off her, out of her, away from her, more quickly.

She never achieved climax herself, of course, but she became adept at faking it, because many of the clients liked to see that. And not with loud, screaming porn star orgasms, but silent, shuddering ones that fit her quiet personality, because that was what they expected. And because that really was how she came - in another lifetime - every such performance was its own kind of violation.

And she hated it when her ever-rational mind urged her to go along more and more. That was what her survival training said - anyone can be broken, recognize and accept it; control what you give to your captors; let them think you are broken, and use it to increase your chances of escape.

But that was not who Miranda Lawson was. Even if her mind knew it was the wrong answer, her heart wanted to resist to the end in every way she could, even if only in her own thoughts. She was not the type to give in. At all. Ever.

*

At last the day was over. She was unchained from her table and led to the showers, then to the mess hall.

The evening routine was as inflexible as that of the morning. She was required to have twelve hours' "rest" for every twelve hours' work. She was allowed no free time, no chance to exercise her mind, because she might use it to plot escape. No reading, no conversation with her fellow captives, though she had little to say to them anyway. Instead she was given a sleeping pill, though given her daily exertions it likely wasn't even necessary. She swallowed it unwillingly - if she didn't, she would get an injection - and showed the attendant her empty mouth, and by the time her exhausted body settled on her cot, she was tumbling into her next nightmare.

But today her attendant, after securing her to her cot, surprised her.

"Tomorrow is your six-month anniversary with us," the girl said, as if this were a cause for congratulation. "In recognition of your improving attitude - "

What? Miranda thought, panicking, no it isn't improving, it isn't -

" - a boon."

"W-what?" Miranda asked, hoping she wouldn't be punished for her lapse in attention.

"The masters have decided to grant you a boon," the girl repeated without the slightest change in inflection.

Let me go! Miranda nearly shouted, but she saw the girl was about to say something else and she did not dare interrupt.

"Tomorrow you are scheduled for a private rental," the girl said. Miranda brightened a little at that - some of those were awful, but on average they were better than being chained in her booth all day for public use.

"Two clients have requested to rent you," the girl went on. " You may have your choice of which client to accept." There was the slightest emphasis on the last word. A tiny smile appeared at the corner of her mouth. "I believe you refer to them as 'Loverboy' and 'Pig'."

How the hell did they - ? Did she talk in her sleep?

"I must continue on my rounds," the girl said with a hint of impatience. "Please choose one, or I shall be required to choose for you."

Pig, Miranda's mind said. Pig. Pig!

She opened her mouth.

Pig.

"Loverboy," she said. Her voice held defeat, rather than defiance, for the first time since she had been brought here.

"Are you sure?"

Miranda nodded miserably. "Please," she whispered, hating herself.

"Very good," the girl purred.

Miranda swallowed the sleeping pill past a thick lump in her throat.

A minute later she was out. Her eyes moved, captive behind her closed eyelids, as she twitched and murmured uneasily in her chemical sleep.


	3. Loverboy

For the first time since being abducted and brought to the Sex Arcade, Miranda Lawson awoke to something other than a nightmare.

Her morning routine was mostly unchanged. The harsh buzz that jolted her from her troubled chemical sleep. The attendant who detached her leash from the floor and led her out of her cell. The tight steel collar that dug into her throat.

But last night her sleep had been easier than usual. Today the attendant seemed less indifferent to her. Her collar felt a little looser. Maybe her captors had changed the cocktail of drugs they gave her the night before.

Her attendant did not lead her to the public shower area, but to a smaller adjacent stall. There was still no privacy; the stall was little more than an alcove in the hallway. Unfortunately Miranda had to endure an extra thorough cleaning, both inside and out, so her breath and skin and hair wouldn't reek of semen.

After a triple dose of the usual icy detergent spray and the dryer that felt like a desert sandstorm, she was subjected to an enema and a stainless steel douche. At least, she thought, they knew to use only warm water, rather than scour her vagina with chemicals. She thought it was all a waste of time. The man who had bought her - Loverboy, as she thought of him - knew what he was getting. He had already had it.

The one thing she did not mind was the mouthwash, though it was harsh enough to bring tears to her eyes, and the attendant required her to gargle for a full minute. Afterward, Miranda breathed deeply, grateful to not smell semen on her own breath for once.

The attendant led her to the suite her client had chosen. She hadn't been in this one before.

The attendant unclipped one of the many key rings she carried, inserted a key into the padlock on Miranda's collar, and opened it; Miranda gasped as the ever-present pressure on her throat was relieved. Her hands darted to her neck and her fingers explored where the collar had been. It felt strange. They had never taken her collar off before; the client must have requested it.

She couldn't bring herself to thank the attendant. As usual, the attendant seemed impervious to either politeness, lack of it, or hostility. "Your client will arrive in fifteen minutes," the attendant said in her usual toneless voice. "You may select something to wear from the bedroom closet, or not, as you wish." She gave this same speech before every private session. She turned and left; the door clicked shut behind her.

Miranda looked around. The main room was like a den, warm and rich and masculine. The walls were dark wood paneling, the chairs overstuffed leather. A fireplace was lit in a pillar in the center of the room.

The far wall was taken up by a large window; outside was a lake ringed by a pine forest. Miranda suspected this was a holographic projection, but still she found herself drawn over to look at it. She had seen nothing but bare metal walls, floors, and ceilings for so long. If it was a projection, she failed to spot anything that gave it away.

Overall, she approved. At least it wasn't the bridal suite, where she had been taken more than once. She felt suffocated by all that white silk and linen and lace, even without being raped in the vast canopied bed.

She made a search of the suite for potential weapons or means of escape. She knew she wouldn't find anything, and that she was being watched, and that if she did find anything, the attendants would come in and stop her. But she looked anyway, just to satisfy herself. She couldn't see any cameras or microphones, but she knew those were easy to miniaturize and conceal.

The fireplace was enclosed in all sides with clear panels that were secured with padlocks. She tapped on one of the panels; it felt thick and heavy and very hard to break. The window, or projector, seemed to be made of the same material. She supposed she could throw a chair at it, but she wasn't ready for anything so drastic until she had more information.

The table was set, but the plates and glasses were made of heavy plastic and the utensils were soft and flexible. She picked up a knife and felt the serrated blade. It wasn't sharp enough to use as a weapon. She bent the knife quickly and snapped it in half and ran her thumb over the broken edges. They were a little sharper than the blade, but not much. No match for the pneumatic dart guns carried by all the attendants.

When the client came in she could take him hostage, even without a knife. Lock her arm around his throat and threaten to snap his neck. She had extensive unarmed combat training and even her captors had no way to take that from her, except by waiting for it to become rusty with disuse.

But she could only use him as a shield in front. And she couldn't look everywhere at once. Once an attendant got behind her and shot her with a dart, it would be over. Whatever was in those darts, it acted so quickly she wasn't even sure she could kill her hostage before her muscles stopped obeying her. She had been shot several times during her various attempts at resistance, which only gave her captors more data to help them adjust the dosage.

And afterward...she dreaded to imagine what these sadists would do to her if she attacked a client. Cripple her, maybe. Or maybe not. They seemed intent on not marking her - physically, at least. But she knew she would never live another minute of her life without chains on her wrists and ankles, let alone the hated collar and leash. She pictured herself shuffling down the hallway, hobbled by the shortness of her ankle chains, as her attendant led to her table for another day of torture, and she shuddered.

Besides, she almost didn't hate the man who was coming to see her. He was likely to be kinder than her other private clients, and a day with him would surely be better than one minute chained down to her table for public use. And, she reminded herself bitterly, she had chosen him, too.

She glanced around for a clock and realized she only had three minutes left. She hurried to the closet. Despite the hint dropped by the attendant, Miranda was not about to greet her client at the door naked like some teenage fantasy.

Black underwear went best with her dark hair and fair skin. So she chose the least sexy white panties and bra she could find. Then she put on a pair of dark sweat pants and a gray T-shirt that were no doubt meant for male clients. Even those could not hide her wide hips and generous breasts. Still, having clothes on - real clothes - felt strange and luxurious.

She went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Her faint smile at her apperance contrasted with her drawn, pale face and disheveled hair. She ignored the selection of makeup laid out on the counter - enough for a brothel, she thought scornfully. She never wore nail polish, and the attendants cut her nails short, so she couldn't sharpen them and use them as claws. Unfortunately, hers was the kind of beauty that hardly needed makeup.

The doorbell rang discreetly. She started toward the door, then made herself slow down. She wasn't about to hurry. Still, she admitted, she was curious.

She opened the door. He seemed a little shorter than she remembered, probably because this was the first time she had seen him while she was standing up instead of flat on her back. She was tall, at nearly five feet ten inches, but he overtopped her by at least an inch. He had short dark hair and grey eyes. She put his age in the middle thirties, close to hers.

He was dressed almost as casually as she was - dark gray jeans, a dark blue sweater, and a black leather jacket. The outfit hung nicely on his lean frame. She was glad he hadn't worn a suit, as some of her clients did. Suits, especially well-tailored ones, would always remind her of her father.

"You are beautiful," he said. It didn't sound like flattery, just a statement of fact. It was the first time she had heard him speak. His voice was pleasantly deep. He had an accent that she couldn't place.

She rolled her eyes. "I might have guessed." She instantly regretted the words, tone, and gesture. She had antagonized him before he even got in the door. All of her clients were forewarned that she was a "difficult subject", in the misogynist terminology of the Sex Arcade, but she had still managed to drive a few of them off in a sulk, which meant they got their money back and she went back to her table.

Fortunately, he didn't seem put out. "You don't seem like one for verbal fencing."

He did have tact. He didn't say, I've already had you, so I don't have to worry about wooing you. She said, "I just meant you chose the perfect words to discomfit me, after my attempt to look as plain as possible."

"Well, you did a rotten job." There a hint of warmth in his voice now.

"Thank you." She surprised herself by holding out her arms. She didn't kiss him, but she rested her head on his shoulder. Her face brushed his and she was glad he was clean-shaven; she detested facial hair. She had never known him to wear cologne or aftershave, and he wasn't wearing any now.

She found herself holding on longer than she meant to. This man had, after all, given her the only affectionate touches she had felt in her long ordeal. "I don't even know your name," she murmured into his jacket.

"Since you no doubt plan to find me and kill me after you escape, it would be rather foolish of me to tell you." His tone was lighter than his words.

Again he startled her. None of her other clients ever went near the subject of her imprisonment or her real feelings about them. They wanted to hear that she loved it here, that she loved them and loved sleeping with them, and nothing else.

She said, "Yes, but there are a lot of other people I have to kill first. You're at the bottom of the list."

"Thank you. Anyway, we won't need names. We're the only ones here."

"This is ridiculous." She leaned back, but did not let go of him. "I'm going to make up some stupid name for you, like Illusive Man." She watched his face.

Yes. There was a flicker of surprise and recognition. So her suspicion was right. This place was somehow connected to Cerberus. To cover the moment, she released him and took both his hands and took a step backward, pulling him into the suite.

She was also relieved he hadn't brought her anything. Some of her clients brought her flowers or chocolates or wine, as if they were her dates instead of her rapists. It enraged her.

"Before I forget," he said, reaching to a back pocket, "this is for you." He held the present out and she took it. It was a book. Paperback, but with real paper nonetheless. Paper was rare and costly. Most people used holotablets; the only paper books she had seen were in museums and antique collections. The Illusive Man had a large library of leather-bound books that was worth more than some planets.

She held the book to her face and breathed deeply. That was what she loved most about books, the smell. Almost as an afterthought, she looked at the title.

"How did you know I liked this?" she asked. Would it be gauche to look at the printing date? She decided he wouldn't mind. "Printed in London", she read, "1874". She swallowed. She was no collector, but this had to be worth thousands of credits.

"Thank you," she said, and for once she meant it, "but I doubt they'll let me keep this."

"Hide it in the bookcase, then. If you don't finish it, I'll ask for the same room next time." He was walking slowly around the room, sizing it up as if planning to buy it. He glanced at the view outside the window with approval.

She went over and stood beside him and slipped her arm around him and rested her head on his shoulder. "I wonder if it's real," she said.

"You mean, can you jump out and swim for it? I don't know." He paused. "I don't know a lot about this place. And I wasn't encouraged to ask."

There's so much I want to ask you, she almost said. But she was afraid of pushing too hard until she had a better feel for this man. She wanted to sleep with him at least once - strictly to soften him up, of course - before she started with the questions.

She said, "I would like to have a shower. By myself. I haven't had a shower - a real one, I mean - since I've been here."

"Why not a bubble bath? You can have a shower afterward."

"Good idea," she said. She let go of him and went into the bathroom and closed the door.

So he seemed content to take this at her pace. When she was growing up, her father was determined to cram as much education into her head as he could. Then she was on the run from him. Then she was with Cerberus. Then she was on the run from Cerberus. Then she was here, the most regimented existence of them all. Miranda was not used to having free time. She wanted very much to enjoy it.

Then she remembered that Oriana was still out there somewhere, alone and afraid, while Miranda was about to pour herself a bubble bath. She blotted the thought out. She couldn't do anything for Oriana right now, except by getting information from her client, and to do that she had to be patient.

The bathtub was, of course, just the right size for two people to fit in comfortably. Miranda perused the bottles of bubble bath on the counter and chose the least annoying one, vanilla. It was small, so she emptied it into the tub. Then she put the stopper in the drain and, after remembering how the attendants operated her shower every morning, opened the hot water tap. 

She put a toe into the water and jerked it out with a gasp. She was used to baths and showers with the temperature controlled by a VI. The controls on this one were strangely primitive. She opened the cold water tap a little as well. She played with the taps until she got the mixture right. She wanted the hottest water she could stand.

Sinking into the hot bath was the most wonderful thing Miranda could remember experiencing. She let out a moan of pleasure that was almost sexual. She sank lower and lower until only her chin was above the water level. She closed her eyes and smiled.

After a while she reached for the book and read as she soaked, careful to keep her hands out of the water so as not to dampen the pages. She was starved for reading. Her absorption was total. Briefly, blissfully, she was in another world, awakened from the fever dream that was her life here. She did not quite forget about the man waiting for her in the other room, but she realized with some surprise that she didn't mind that.

Eventually she made herself put the book down. How long had she been reading? An hour? Two? She had no idea, and it was wonderful. She glanced down at the water. The bubbles were mostly gone, and her nude body was clearly outlined below the surface.

She looked around. There was a small wicker rack with bottles of soap and shampoo affixed in the corner between the tub and the wall. She looked through the bottles and found one with more bubble bath. This one was lavender, but it would have to do. She pulled the stopper out of the drain and let the water run out. Then she put it back in, squirted the bubble bath all over herself, and ran more water. She had to figure out how to get the right mixture of hot and cold all over again, but she was getting the hang of it. And it was nice to have freshly heated water.

When she was concealed by bubbles again, she shouted, "Hey! Come in here!"

She wondered why she protected her modesty with this man, as though he hadn't long ago seen her stripped of it. Was it a way of undoing what had been done to her? Re-creating herself as a whole, inviolate woman? Or just reassuring herself that she had standards, that she didn't willingly sleep with just anyone, that she required intellectual connection and affection? All she knew was that it was enjoyable to make him wait.

The bathroom door opened and he walked in. If he was impatient from the long wait, or frustrated at seeing her covered with suds, he gave no sign of it. "Forget your rubber ducky?"

"What?"

"A joke." He waved it away. "Enjoying yourself?"

"Yes," she said. Her voice had more life to it than before. "Thank you for letting me read. And...the alone time." She felt guilty thanking him for anything, but she reasoned that he didn't have to give her anything. So she was grateful, relatively speaking.

"I understand. If you need more, say so. I need a fair bit myself." He leaned against a wall.

"Also," she said, "I felt daft yelling for you without knowing your name. Since you insist on being so mysterious, how about Mr. Gray Man?"

"He sounds like an assassin."

"Or just Mr. Gray? Matches your eyes."

"Isn't he a suspect in Clue?"

She scooped up a handful of suds and threw them at him. Most of them fell to the carpet in a clump, but a few bubbles wandered aimlessly through the air. "I've got it. Sydney. He's a person in my book. He's very mysterious. Also, kind of a bastard."

"But a charming bastard," he said. "Very well, I supposed I asked for it. Sydney it is."

"Good. Now that we have that settled...." She held out her hand. He took it and helped her to her feet. She stood, dripping, covered in suds; clumps of them distorted her shape and covered her breasts and between her thighs. He was going to see her sooner or later, and she was in a good mood after the reading and the bath. She decided it might as well be now, wherever it led.

She looked at the taps. "How do I get a shower?"

"By pulling that stop in the faucet."

She did. Nothing happened.

"You have to open the taps first. But don't - "

Too late. She opened both taps and then jumped as water cascaded over her. At least it wasn't freezing like she was used to. In an instant the suds were whisked off her and swirling around the drain. She turned her face upward to the spray and combed her fingers through her hair to rinse it. She wondered if he would get into the shower with her, but he seemed content to watch. Well, she couldn't see him for now, and that let her pretend he couldn't see her.

She felt for the taps and shut them off. She held out her hand. "Can you get me a - " she felt the towel placed in her hand. It was thick and soft and warm. She dried her eyes first, as she always did, then slicked her hair back from her face so it wouldn't drip in her eyes.

She looked at him, to find him watching with clear admiration. She said, "Well, you've seen me. It's silly to pretend otherwise."

"I thought I had." Most women looked their best with a little lingerie on; Miranda was one of the few who looked her best totally nude. Only then was the broadness of her hips, the fullness of her breasts, totally clear. Her body was soft and luxurious, more like Aphrodite than, say, Shepard's Athena.

She handed the towel back to him. "You can dry me, if you'd like."

He rubbed the towel around her neck (it still felt deliciously novel to not have the collar there), and worked his way down. She closed her eyes and let his hands wander where they would. After all, he'd already shown her he knew his way around her body. She lifted her right leg, then her left, so he could dry her feet. She was still getting used to having thick soft carpet under them instead of gritty, greasy metal.

Eventually she said, "I seem to be very dry. Especially my breasts. But thank you for being so gentle. I'm very sensitive there. As you know." She managed to keep her voice level. Barely. Her throat seemed to be tightening.

"How about here?"

She felt his lips brush the side of her neck, just below her ear. She drew in a sharp breath and tilted her head to expose more of her neck. "About time," she said. "I was starting to wonder if you still liked me." Her voice was quite unsteady now. What was wrong with her, inviting him on like that? Had the last six months made her so insecure? So unsure that she could still appeal to someone as she really was, instead of as an adolescent fantasy?

He turned her to face him. The towel fell to the floor. He pulled her into a tight hug. Even through his jeans, she felt something very hard digging into her lower abdomen.

"Oh," she said.

He nodded. If she was having trouble speaking, he was past it entirely.

"You do like me. For me," she said. Her voice was just a whisper now.

He nodded.

"You don't like anyone else."

He shook his head.

She pressed her lips to his and opened her mouth.

Afterward, she didn't remember taking his clothes off. He was lean, in good shape, but not heavily muscled. She liked that - the two clients she hated most were a steroid freak and a fat pig, and she wanted to forget all about them. And she did.

She wrestled him to the floor and knelt atop him. That was important to her - after the passive role she had been forced into for so long, she needed to control the position, the pace, everything. She leaned over him, her breasts swaying beneath her so her nipples brushed his chest, and reached down and took hold of his cock, which jumped a little as her fingers closed around it; her hands were cool and it was feverishly warm. She gripped it tightly and rubbed the head up and down over her vaginal lips, then ground her clit against his shaft. After her long hot bath, the bathroom was very steamy; sweat trickled down her face and mixed with the dampness from her hair. Her hips were working now as she rubbed her clit against him. She disliked penetration but loved having her clit stroked, and now she was getting just what she needed. He saw that, and it was not long before he shuddered and painted her midriff with a thick load of semen, but she hardly noticed it and didn't stop and thankfully he stayed hard. A tiny crease appeared between her eyebrows, her mouth was open slightly, a stream of drool dangled from the corner of her mouth. She came so hard it frightened her a little, it was more intense than pleasurable, she felt as if her body were shaking itself apart. Usually, she came quietly, but not this time; she let out a shuddering cry close to his ear without knowing she did it. He held him to her, very tightly, her breasts squashed against his chest, and her orgasm shook both of them violently but she could feel his arms wrapped around her and it felt like he was squeezing her back into a single piece. She found her chin resting on his shoulder, her forehead against the floor. She moaned, more quietly this time, as her orgasm let go with a final pulse that sent tingles of pleasure shooting through her body.

She didn't know how long she lay atop him, soaked with sweat, drained. She could feel his erection still digging into her belly but it hardly registered. She must have dozed, because she abruptly realized she was drooling into the carpet. She closed her mouth and tried to say something, but failed. She coughed and tried again. "God."

She felt him kiss her neck again, and she smiled. "Mmmm." That earned her another twitch from his cock, which made her wince. "Mmph. That thing is like a spear."

"That's because Miranda Lawson is lying on it."

"Here," she said, and reached down again. She didn't mind doing this - too much. He had been very patient. She shifted her body a little - it didn't take much - and then his cock was no longer digging into her lower belly but was inside her. "Ah - " she gasped. To her surprise it felt as if something that was wrong had just been made right, not only for him but for her. Her vaginal muscles seemed to ripple around the intrusion, then constrict on it. There was no discomfort at all; she was very wet, more than she remembered ever being.

The sex was - easy, even pleasurable. It hadn't been that way for her very often, and she hadn't thought it would ever be again. And then, she didn't know when, it became more and more urgent. She hadn't expected to climax again, but she did, just after he did, sunk to the hilt inside her. Usually, having a man cum inside her disgusted her. With him it felt...right, somehow.

She put her hands on the floor and pushed herself upright but remained kneeling atop him with his cock still inside her. She glanced down at herself. Her nipples and areolae were a much darker pink than usual, and a little splotchy. Her belly was sticky with cum from his first orgasm, which she had smeared over both of them when their bodies joined again, and she could feel more semen seeping out of her reddened, swollen vagina. She smiled ruefully. "What a mess."

"A beautiful mess," he said. He never seemed smug after fucking her, as if he'd just accomplished something. Nor did he look at her with pity.

She reached out with her left hand and on her second try managed to grab the edge of the counter. Carefully, shakily, she stood up, distinctly feeling his cock slide out of her as she did so. She looked around and found a washcloth and wet it with hot water from the sink and began wiping the sweat and cum from her body, watching herself in the mirror with a little smile. Then she reached down and picked up the discarded towel and wrapped it around her waist.

"I'm surprised you're not getting back in the shower."

"Maybe later. I want to dry my hair." He was right - she should have wanted to get clean. But she just felt relaxed, loose, a little giddy.

He had stood up and was zipping up his jeans. "Are you hungry?"

"I'm starving. I haven't eaten yet."

He handed her the hair dryer. "I'll go order. Don't drop this into any water or you'll electrocute yourself."

She frowned at the dryer. "Electrocute? How medieval."

Her hair was long and thick and it took her a while to dry it and comb it out. Then she opened the bathroom door a crack. "Can I come out?"

"Yes, the server just left."

He hadn't asked her what she wanted, which miffed her a little. But when she came out, she saw why.

"Oh," she said.

The table was crowded with food, enough for a small buffet. There were scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, biscuits, pastries, cereal, several kinds of fruit, decanters of coffee, tea, milk, water, and orange juice. He stood and came around the table to pull out her chair for her.

She stared at the feast. "You know I haven't had anything to eat but mush since I've been here?" Those last four words had become her refrain.

"I've heard. You're - "

" - a 'difficult subject'. I know. Notice how difficult I've been to you." She sat down and began piling food on her plate. "I guess you know I'm a biotic, even though they took my amp out, and I can barely knock down a house of cards without it. But - "

"Your metabolism is different."

"Yes. We always get jokes about how much we eat."

"Not me. I like to see a woman eat."

"Naturally. It's when we get fat that you have a problem."

"Exercise takes care of that."

"I'd better have two helpings. You'll exercise me down to nothing."

She took her first bite of toast, which she had slathered with butter. A warm yellow drop trickled down her chin. She shivered, closed her eyes, let out a sigh that turned into a tiny moan; she couldn't help it. She had been deprived of so many basic things for so long that the smallest indulgences felt like sinful excesses. Wearing real clothes, eating breakfast, and having an actual conversation, she felt like a prisoner on parole.

Half an hour later, she had made a large dent in the food. She set her hand on her stomach. "I think I'm going to be miserable. And I'm looking forward to it." She yawned hugely, despite the several cups of coffee she'd drunk. "Or maybe not." She looked up at him. "Would you think badly of me for taking a nap two hours after getting up?"

"That's what you're here for. To do what you like."

"It's just that usually when I sleep it's because they drug me, and it never feels like enough. Sleep, I mean." Her eyelids were heavy. She walked into the bedroom. He followed her, but she didn't object. She let the towel slip to the floor. She had never liked sleeping naked, and she had been doing just that for six months. But this would be different. Usually she slept on a tiny, miserable cot. Here she would be sleeping between knit cotton sheets. Anyway, she was too sleepy to put on pajamas or a robe or whatever she could find in the closet.

He got into the bed next to her and lay on his back. She preferred to sleep on her side. Wrapped around something. She scooted across the bed and put her leg across his and her hand came up and curled around his shoulder. She figured he wouldn't mind. Then she was out.

*

She woke with hands on her shoulders, shaking her. "Miranda. You're having a nightmare."

She flung his hands off her and rolled away, tangling herself in the sheet. "Don't! No, go away, don't touch me." Her voice sounded and felt like gravel. She pulled the sheet around herself, covering her nudity, and curled up with her back to him. She felt him get out of the bed.

By the time he came back, she had calmed enough to accept the glass of brandy he gave her. She took a long swallow, coughed, and set the glass on the bedside table. He sat in a chair in the corner, close enough to listen if she wanted to talk, far enough away to be ignored if she did not.

Her face was buried in her pillow, her voice muffled. "I was..."

He nodded.

As if she had seen him, she said, "No. Not on my table. Here. But not with you. With the Pig." She knew he didn't know whom she meant, but it didn't matter. "And maybe tomorrow I will be. God, what's the point of this?"

She pushed back the sheet and sat up and looked at him. "I was afraid of this. That if I remembered how it could be, it would just make it harder to go back." She looked down. "I tried to tell them I wanted him instead of you. But I...couldn't." She let out a shuddering sigh and bit her lip hard. She refused to cry.

He seemed to understand. "I'm glad you didn't."

"Why are you even here? You're not like him," she said, meaning the Pig. "You could have anyone. Well, within reason."

"Anyone, yes. But not Miranda Lawson."

She waved her hands, frustrated. "I've heard other people say that too. Why? I'm not famous."

"It's a long story."

"Sydney - tell me, how much did this - did I - cost?"

He shook his head. "Don't do that to yourself."

"No. I want to know."

He studied her. "Ten thousand."

"Credits?"

"Dollars."

"Ten thousand dollars. What can you buy with that?"

"A European vacation for two people for a month."

"You should have waited. I'm sure I'll be less expensive later, once the novelty wears off." Still, she felt a little better. She realized it was a bizarre thing to take pride in, but....

"It won't for me."

"You know," she said, "I'm worth millions of credits. My father always reminded me of that, growing up. I'd like to think he said it to make me feel good. But it didn't. It felt like a demand."

He nodded. "It was always a question of whether you were living up to it."

"And after I escaped, I was measured by my looks. And now it's both. Clients buy me for my looks and my captors measure me by how much money I make."

"And you'd prefer to be measured by your accomplishments."

"Yes, preferably outside of bed. Of course, I can't talk about most of them." Then she laughed. "Actually, I suppose I can." What else could Cerberus do to her?

He said, "I would have felt the same way about you wherever we met. We just happened to meet here."

"Yes, and you raped me," she said. "I had no way to consent. You could have scheduled this - " she waved her hands again, taking in the suite - "and let me decide whether to sleep with you." She knew she shouldn't antagonize him; she needed information. But the nightmare - and, she admitted, the things he was saying to her - had broken her self-control, her careful plan to coax it out of him.

He sighed. "Maybe I should have. I saw your name on the list, and I suppose I made the mistake of walking over to see you." On her table, he meant. "You were so angry. The way I saw it, it was either me or another of them."

"For me, it was. For you, it was either rape me, or go get help." She knew her captors could hear her, but she was too angry to care. "You seem to know who I am. You could have contacted the Alliance. I know I'm not that important, but this is obviously a Cerberus facility. They would have sent someone. Maybe even Shepard." Of course, she had told Shepard to write her off and focus on finding Oriana, but that was before she spent six months in this hell.

He sighed again and stood up. "Let me get back in bed, so we can talk."

Her hands twisted the sheet. "Stay away from me." Her voice was brittle. She wondered if she could refuse him. Would the attendants charge in, paralyze her, and let him fuck her motionless body?

He looked at her like she was an idiot. It was not a look she was used to getting. "So we can talk."

Her distrust of him battled her curiosity. Curiosity won. Her grip on the sheet relaxed. She moved a little to one side. As if to reassure her, he tightened the belt of the robe he was wearing before he slid into the bed next to her. He pulled the sheet up over both of them. Strangely, that relaxed her a little. The last time she had conspired with someone under the covers was with Niket, and they were both too young at the time for it to be sexual.

He put his mouth to her ear. "How did they get you?"

She smiled bitterly. "It was quite the operation. They contacted me with Cerberus recognition codes. And they must have found some way to counteract the mass effect. Shut down my biotics, shields, guns, everything at once."

He nodded. "That's what I'd be up against if I tried to free you, or even to tell anyone about this place. Anyway, where I'm from, there is no Alliance. And wherever this is...I don't think it's where either of us came from."

"Then this isn't Cerberus?" she said to herself. "Then how do you know who I am?" Then another question, a far worse one, forced its way out of her. "Sydney - do they - do they have...." She couldn't finish.

"Your sister? Not that I know of."

Her hands gripped the lapels of his robe, and even in the darkness under the covers he could see the whiteness of her knuckles. "Do you know anything about her? Where she is? If she's safe? Tell me." Her hair was disheveled, her eyes wide, her face pale, scored in sharp lines between light and shadow. For a moment she looked all of her thirty-six years.

His voice was cautious. "As far as I know, she's safe." He had an odd look on his face. She realized it was not the look of someone trying to invent a lie, but of someone thinking how to explain a complicated truth. Finally he said, "Your father captured her."

Miranda closed her eyes. She had suspected it, but....

"Shepard went after him. He tried to use Oriana as a human shield, but Shepard killed him. She had to wound Oriana to do it, but it wasn't bad."

"Oh God." Miranda's voice shook.

"I'm not sure what happened to her after that. If I had to guess, I'd say Shepard sent her to work on the Crucible project. One of the few relatively safe places left."

"I...I don't know how you could know all of this," she said, "and I think there's more than you're telling me...but I think what you are telling me is true."

"It is."

"Tell it to me again. All of it. Every detail."

He did.

She found herself nodding. "It sounds just like my father. And, though I hate to admit it, like Cerberus. We - they - did the same thing at Chasca. That was one reason I left. I couldn't condone things like that any more."

"I know."

"How - how did she look?" The tremor in her voice told him whom she meant.

"A little frightened, but good. Strong. She did everything she could to escape, to warn people about what your father was doing."

"Ori - my baby sister - " Miranda said. On the last word, her voice broke. She hadn't cried in all the time she'd been here, except for a few tears of rage and frustration. Now six months of pain and fear for her sister welled up in her throat and burst out of her. Thankfully, he didn't touch her. She didn't want him to see this, hear this. She put her hands on his chest to push him away. Instead, she found herself pulling him to her. She rested her head on his shoulder and sobbed.

When she stopped, she turned away and took a tissue from a box on the bedside table and blew her nose. She got up and walked into the bathroom and washed her face. She looked even more bedraggled than before, but she felt better.

She went back into the bedroom to find him putting on a fresh robe. His old one was wet with her tears. She smiled, damply. "Sorry about that."

"Not at all." He was folding the old robe into a neat square.

"Don't tell me you're going to keep that," she said.

"Damn right," he said.

"That's a romantic notion, but I'm fairly sure my nose dripped all over it too."

"Oh." He put the robe down. "I suppose I'll have to settle for a lock of your hair or something instead."

She went over to him and put her arms around him. She realized the way she was feeling wasn't rational - she was associating him with the good news about her sister, which anyone could have told her - but such a weight had been lifted from her heart that, for the moment, it was a pleasure to act irrationally for once.

*

He wasn't much for talking. That was fine; neither was she. They sat by the fire in a companionable silence. She read her book, and he occasionally rubbed her shoulders or her feet or played with her hair, but not in a way that demanded a response.

"'If it had pleased GOD,'" she read aloud, "'to put it in the hard heart of either of the brothers, in all these frightful years, to grant me any tidings of my dearest wife-so much as to let me know by a word whether alive or dead—I might have thought that He had not quite abandoned them.'"

"I've never been religious," she said, "but I guess it pleased somebody to put it in your heart."

*

Eventually, his small attentions had their inevitable effect on her. She would hardly have expected to be interested after her emotional meltdown, but she surprised herself again with a sexual romp that lasted for hours and took them from the love seat to the floor and then the bedroom and then the bed. If she had been able to get pregnant, she had no doubt she would have, with or without birth control. If she hadn't slept with him already, she would have felt guilty. I am not doing this as payback for his telling me about Oriana, she told herself firmly. I'm doing it because it feels good, and I deserve to feel good.

And she did. He spent nearly an hour just exploring her with his tongue - her ears, her neck, her collarbone, down to between her toes, and what seemed like every tiny indentation and concavity in her body in between - despite what must have been an excruciating hard-on. Eventually he made his way back up her thighs to her vagina and then her clit. She was completely unable to hide her responses to being licked, and she was grateful he hadn't done it in public, because she came loudly and wetly and more than once, her legs over his shoulders and her heels pressed into his back.

Eventually she disentangled herself and rolled over on top of him. Her body became an arch, her hips joined to his, her torso angling upward and her head down, exposing her long slim neck as her lush hair fell forward and covered his face like a dark cloud. Somehow her hands found his and their fingers interlaced.

*

Sunlight shafted through the bedroom window, casting the shadows of trees across the bed where the two of them lay. Maybe it was real after all. Gradually the light dimmed. She wanted today to last forever, but she was physically and emotionally spent. Usually she needed her own space when she slept, but she again found herself wrapped around Sydney. She slept deeply, this time without dreams.

*

"What will you do now?" he said. It was morning. Outside the window, the sun cast stark shadows of the trees over the water.

"Escape," she said, barely moving her lips, her voice almost inaudible. "I don't know how, or when, but...." He nodded. There was a new strength in her; she looked years younger, her eyes clearer, glowing with health. She looked up at him. "Until then, will I..."

"See you again? Yes." They both knew he meant here. He gripped her shoulders and looked into her eyes. "Be careful, Miranda."

She smiled. "I promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this went differently than I expected. I meant for the relationship between Miranda and Sydney to be much more antagonistic and consist mainly of verbal sniping and hate sex. But when I tried to write it that way, it just didn't sound right. Maybe at some level I had decided she had a hard enough time in the last chapter. Anyway, thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> I adore Miranda and I hope I've managed to convey that here despite what I've just put her through.


End file.
